Obsessive Impulsion
by LondonBelow
Summary: Rowan is dead, and Chase's mourning lands him on the other side of the stethoscope. Ch. 6: Chase dredges up memories and the day is saved. Mostly unrelated.
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer: I don't own any characters, places, or anything else you recognize. This was written (will be written, I suppose--it's not fullywritten yet) for fun (and angst, which is sort of another kind of fun).

_Oh, G-d._

Chase looked at the table, as though somehow his coffee had the ability to shift the letters on the page. He needed the facts to reverse themselves. When Chase looked back to the newspaper, the letters were indeed rearranging themselves, but not for the reason he had hoped. He swore and swiped the tears from his eyes with uncharacteristic fury. It was a damn good thing Cameron and Foreman weren't about, and-- _Oh, G-d_, Chase thought for the second time in under a minute. What if _House_ had seen him cry?

Aware of his panic levels rising, Chase took a deep breath. If anyone found out about this, he didn't think he could handle it. He could already feel himself shutting down at the prospect of Cameron's gentle, flat sympathy. At least Foreman wouldn't say anything, unless Chase made some stupid mistake; of all the team, Chase feared Foreman the least. It was House he was truly frightened of. House hated Chase. House would use this to make him suffer, and it might just break him.

With his usual response to such stimuli, Chase rolled his eyes upwards. All he had to do was stay in control of the situation. He certainly had enough practice at that.

"Hey, Chase."

"Oh, hey, Cameron." _There, you see?_ he asked himself. _That sounded completely normal, she's got no idea and she never will._ Even in his thoughts, he skipped half the 'r' sound.

"Anything interesting in the paper?"

_Why is she being so polite? Oh, G-d, House told her. No, House doesn't know. She's polite because she's Cameron. Crap, now she's lookin' at me like she knows somethin's up. Crap._ "No, well, I'm just reading the comics." He quickly folded the paper to prevent Cameron peeking at it and calling his lie, but she seemed interested in nothing of the sort. In fact, Cameron accepted Chase's lie and turned to Foreman, who had just come in, to ask about traffic. _Why does she have to be so perky all the time?_ Chase knew he was being unfair to Cameron, but at the moment he needed to be angry with someone. That helped. Usually Chase could simply redirect his anger to his father, but that door was now closed to him.

Rowan Chase was dead.

TBC


	2. Chapter 2

"I'm worried about Chase."

"What?" After the immediate shock of hearing House admit this wore off, Wilson smiled. "Wait, don't answer yet. I want to savor this moment."

"He's sick; I don't want my patients catching anything. Shut up," House ordered his friend. "I have a weapon, you know." He brandished his cane menacingly. "For a doctor, you can be so cruel. Teasing a cripple, tsk."

Wilson didn't stop smiling as he rejoined, "Oh, I'm not nice? Maybe Chase wouldn't be sick if you stopped torturing him. He's probably got an ulcer from stress, waiting for you to fire him. Why don't you just do it already, put the poor kid out of his misery?"

"'Poor kid'? What, his completely betraying me never registered with you?" To this Wilson tipped his head in a manner just carefree enough to indicate that he did not hold Chase's actions against him after the torture House had routinely inflicted in retaliation. "Fine. You're not my friend anymore." House stopped so abruptly Wilson nearly knocked him over, and squinted through the glass at his team. Chase was holding a coffee mug in both hands, staring at it as though he couldn't quite remember what to do with the drink. Foreman had an Economist magazine open in front of him, and Cameron stood near the coffeepot eating an apple and shooting glances she wished were covert at Chase. "Anyway, you think he has an ulcer so it sounds like the perfect case for you. When will you be in the clinic today?"

"Uh… actually, I am there at this moment if Cuddy asks. Why?"

"I'm going to send you a patient."

"Chase? You're going to--"

But House only smiled sarcastically and strode away, leaving Wilson somewhere between amused and mystified. Before Wilson thought up a retort shocking and logical enough to bring House around, the diagnostician threw open the door and limped powerfully towards his team.

"Good morning!" Only House could say those two rote words with enough emotion not only to give them meaning, but to make it perfectly clear that they meant this was not a good morning at all. "Everybody have a nice weekend? Great. Patient comes into the clinic complaining of nausea and headache, Cuddy--" the last word stated with unnecessary contempt, clearly implying that House couldn't disagree more "--thinks there's something there. So--" House uncapped the black marker and wrote on the whiteboard 'nausea' and 'drowsiness' "--let's be brief. What _can't_ cause these symptoms?"

"What good will that do?" Chase asked.

"I was being facetious," House replied. 'You should know that, you moron,' his tone added. "Anything can cause nausea and headache, that's why this is a ridiculous case which should be treated with aspirin! So, obviously there's something more interesting--"

"Wait," Foreman interrupted. "Why would Cuddy give us this patient if all he has is a minor bacterial infection--which this probably is. And why don't we know anything else? Like the patient's age and gender, for example."

"Because Cuddy caught me getting into the elevator and told me a room number, so now you are going to get me a history."

Cameron asked, "What are you going to do?"

House furrowed his brow at her. "Are you sick?" he asked. "I'm going to make valuable use of my time. Like always!" At the very moment he was debating whether his Gameboy or his iPod was feeling the most neglected and was thus in the greatest need of attention. "Now go, get that history. Find me something interesting." The team collectively rolled their eyes and sighed as they headed for the door, not even bothering to point out that three people weren't needed to get a history. To no one's complete surprise, House called after them, "Not all of you. Doctor Chase--"

_Why am I not surprised?_ Chase wondered half-heartedly. He turned to face House, awaiting the usual sadism--something like, Look up every cause of headaches known to man. Had House given him that assignment before? Chase could not recall. Just thinking about it gave him a headache. _One for the list._

"I want you to go to the clinic." House waited for a moment, then asked, "Aren't you going to ask why?" He didn't need to add that Chase had spent nine solid hours in the clinic just yesterday.

But Chase shook his head. "No. I'm just going to go do whatever you say."

"Really? You'll do _anything_ I say?" House was excited. "Go to the clinic. That's what I want you to do today. Tell them you're me and don't let Cuddy see you, she'll never know the difference."

"Okay." It was a much less painful assignment than Chase had expected. 'Go to the clinic'? House was losing his touch. Chase offered up a silent prayer in the corridor.

TBC


	3. Chapter 3

Disclaimer: I own nothing except the particular arrangement of words. All is written for fun, angst, and response to reviewer pressure.

"Doctor House checks in at eight-fifteen."

Wilson raised his eyes. _G-d, he does look sick._ Chase was sallow. Under his glassy eyes were deep smudges, which indicated that either House had taken a swing at him (which was unlikely) or Chase hadn't slept well lately. "Did he tell you to say that?"

"Yeah."

"To me?" Wilson asked incredulously. "Yeah, oncologists are really stupid doctors. Okay. Come with me."

That surprised Chase enough that he fully opened his eyes for the first time that day. _What, am I getting a slap on the wrist from Cuddy? That seems a bit severe... and yet incredibly juvenile. Wait, I haven't done anything wrong!_ "Where?" he asked, but Wilson only called for him to come on, they didn't have all day.

Chase was further confused when he closed the door to the exam room behind him and Wilson said, "Okay. I assume you know the drill." Chase stared blankly at him, wondering rather fervidly what was going on. "Chase? Sit down. Take off your shirt."

What! "Are you… Doctor Wilson, are you…"

"No, nothing like that." Wilson laughed. "No, House has already bagsied that one for when he needs to get himself fired. I'm just giving you a check-up."

Nothing made sense anymore. "What? Why?" Information just couldn't make the leap from 'a' to 'b' in Chase's mind. A bridge was out. "Did House put you up to this? Because--"

"Okay! Enough! House is my friend. He doesn't put me up to things. Well, that's lie, he does. Not this time. You're sick. Your colleagues are tired of it. And I'm tired of being in the middle of it, frankly. Bothering House, well, that's one thing. Some would envy you. But Cameron's upset. You made her cry. So just sit down and take your shirt off so I can listen to your lungs and heart."

For a moment, Chase couldn't move. He wasn't sick. He had a cough, that was all. He considered saying so, but from the no-nonsense look on Wilson's face coupled with the very seriously crossed arms, he knew that argument wouldn't fly. At last Chase meekly sat down and unbuttoned his shirt. He hissed at the cold when the stethoscope touched his back.

"Why haven't you been sleeping?" Wilson asked.

"Work," Chase replied.

"That was a stupid excuse. I know you aren't here nearly enough to merit the marks under your eyes. So, what is it? Your dad?"

"How d'you--"

"I was his doctor, remember? Is it 'Chase' or 'Robert'?" Wilson asked, suddenly realizing he had used 'Chase' without asking.

"It's Chase," he said, and coughed. "Are you honestly not acting on orders from House? This seems a convenient way to get rid of me for a few days."

Wilson met Chase's eyes. "Does it actually surprise you so much, that people around here care about you? I didn't invent that story about Cameron. She was in tears because you rejected her attempts to look after you; she's convinced you're suicidal or that you hate her. Foreman's angry as all hell, but then when isn't he. And House, yes, he asked me to examine you."

"I knew it. House hates me. He wants a fake diagnosis so I can't work--"

Ignoring the absurdity of the suggestion of his ignoring the Hippocratic Oath to indulge House, Wilson asked incredulously, "House hates you?" He set aside his stethoscope and pulled a thermometer out of the drawer beside the sink. "Do you actually believe that?"

"And you don't? Wilson, he wants me to quit. Why else would he do this to me? His snide remarks and mundane assignments should do it if he keeps going until my contract's up. I don't think I can last. I haven't had a lunch break in months because House said that Foreman or Cameron needed the time to do lab work or…" He interrupted himself with a yawn. As Chase closed his mouth, Wilson held out the thermometer, which Chase obediently stuck beneath his tongue.

Wilson checked his watch. "Okay. For the next two minutes, you can't talk. You won't need to. Just listen. If House hated you, he would have fired you. Did you never think that he's so upset about your running to Vogler because he trusted you? This torturing you, as the rest of the team calls it--I don't know why House is doing it. He does not confide his every twisted bit of logic in me, contrary to popular belief. But if I had to guess, I would say that either he is simply juvenile, or he wants you to fight him on it. Cameron would--has, actually, for all the good it's done. Even Foreman's gotten angry enough to chew him out a couple of times. But you keep taking it, which is probably why it isn't stopping. And," Wilson added after checking his watch, "if House _is_ being juvenile, your taking his abuse has allowed him to carry on--"

Chase tore the thermometer out of his mouth. "All right. Enough. Are you satisfied? I have work to do--"

"No, you don't. You need to go home and sleep, and eat something. You're malnourished, that isn't helping your flu."

With no regard to Wilson's words, Chase started buttoning his shirt. After half a minute, Wilson added, "If you don't go home, you leave me no choice but to tell Cuddy you continued working despite sound medical advice--"

"Yeah." Chase had reached the door, and now turned back to face Wilson. "Sound medical advice. I'm a doctor, too."

"You're a kid missing his dad," Wilson replied shortly.

"I can't miss someone I haven't seen in years!"

"Right. Then why are you shouting at me? Have I done a poor job of examining you?" Wilson did not truly respect Chase's criticism on the matter. "Are you saying despite your blatant symptoms that you think you're not sick?"

"You're stopping me from doing my job!"

"What, didn't you hear me earlier? You have influenza. You're a risk to the hospital. Chase, you're really sick. If you keep working here, you're going to kill yourself and probably start an epidemic."

Chase stared at him. "Influenza?" he asked.

"Your exhaustion could be due to lack of sleep, but that cough and your temperature, especially the red rims around your eyes, everything points to influenza. Send some blood to the lab for further proof, just don't take it yourself. I'll write you a prescription--ribavirin--then you've got to go home."

Chase nodded. "I'm on my way. I don't want any ribavirin."

Thanks to everyone who reviewed, I always love feedback, positive or constructive (but no flames please!). Sorry this chapter took so long, school got a bit hectic, but it's calmed down now.

To be continued!


	4. Chapter 4

Disclaimer: Not mine, just borrowing for fun, no profit being made... you know the drill.

"Where's Chase?"

"Aw, kitten need a new mouse?" Wilson asked, sarcastically sweet. House's murderous look actually scared him this time, and Wilson looked around quickly. They were outdoors at one of the cafeteria tables, and though no one was near enough to hear them if they moderated the volume of their voices, Wilson was certain if he screamed someone would help him out. It never struck him as strange that he feared violence from a cripple.

"I sent him to you four hours ago. Where is he?" House asked again. "As his employer, I have a right to know."

Wilson couldn't refute that argument. It surprised him often, how conforming and logical House could be when he put his mind to it. "I sent him home." After House repeated the words incredulously, Wilson explained, "He had the flu, and the fact that he looks like a thirteen-year-old girl didn't help."

House adopted one of his patronizing, falsely interested looks. "I didn't know influenza presented in that area. So tell me, is he a natural blond?"

_You… Dammit, House, one of your team is badly ill and you don't give a crap about it, do you?_ "Unless there's some underlying cause for his malnutrition, which I would have found, he has anorexia. Seeing as I don't, would you mind letting me finish my lunch?"

House's eyebrows shot up. He fell into the chair opposite Wilson. "I hired an anorexic? I hired a third-floor boy?"

_Of course._ Wilson couldn't believe he had been so stupid. Any reasonable person would lighten up, give Chase a break. House would probably fire him now. "Look, he wasn't when you hired him and the loss of appetite could easily be a symptom of his influenza."

"It could be… but it isn't," House replied.

Wilson considered for a moment. Telling House about Rowan would probably give him more to mock Chase about, but not telling him could lose Chase his job. Either way, it was Chase's head on the block. "You know about Rowan, I assume?" Wilson asked.

"Of course I know. Chase just doesn't seem stupid enough to starve himself to go join daddy. Especially given that I don't think daddy ever hugged him enough."

"If I let you eat my French fries, will you at least consider what I have to say?" In response, House helped himself. "Okay, I'll take that as a yes. First off, I don't think Chase is trying to kill himself. It doesn't work that way. Death isn't hurting him, it's distracting him and that is what's hurting him."

"Sounds like stupidity to me," House replied.

"Second," Wilson continued forcefully, "emotional development in those early stages can be severely stunted if contact is denied. Small children grow into ridiculously damaged adults--"

"If they're not held often enough? I'll tell Cameron."

Wilson took his plate back. When House protested, he replied, "Your considering what I have to say was part of our deal."

"I considered it and found it inaccurate. That's still considering." House was not fighting about French fries. He needed to be right. This was the quality Wilson feared in House as a doctor and hated in him as a friend. As a friend, it made him annoying. As a doctor, it made him potentially dangerous. Luckily House usually was right.

"Has it never occurred to you that friendship goes both ways? I'm asking you for a favor, a big favor, just once. Even if you couldn't care less about Chase--which, by the way, I think is untrue--could you listen for my sake? Because I'm your friend, and that's a damned thankless job?"

House scowled at Wilson. He lunged forward and took back the plate. "Go on, Cameron."

"Name calling, nice. Chase really hurt you, didn't he? Why is that? Is it because you trusted him and you were wrong? I don't think he meant to hurt you, House, but could he possibly have succeeded as much as you're hurting him? Is it possible that beneath that thick skin you pretend to have, you're even more vulnerable than the rest of us?"

"The teasing does not make you sound less like Cameron, in case you wondered."

"You hate killing patients."

"I prefer not to blame myself quite so much. I'm not the one who makes them sick."

"You're killing Chase."

"Chase has the flu. He'll get better. You're overreacting."

"He's not going to get better so he can come back to work and be tormented by you!"

Before House could respond to the effect that he had never before seen Wilson lose his temper, they were interrupted by Cameron. "For a few seconds there, I almost thought you were going to hit each other," Cameron said, skipping any semblance of an apology for interrupting. "Good thing we're in a hospital, isn't it? Lab results are back. She has no signs of rabies--"

"Rabies?" Wilson interrupted. "I thought you had the headache woman from the clinic."

House rolled his eyes and reached for his cane. "We do. Cuddy assigned her to us because she showed unusual signs of confusion. But about the time the photophobia and vomiting started, we decided it was more than just a headache."

"Encephalitis?" Wilson asked.

"Probably," Cameron replied. "But there isn't have any reason for it. She has no rabies, measles, mumps or meningitis."

"Herpes? Syphilis?"

"She says she's not sexually active--"

At last Cameron earned House's attention. "She says?" he demanded. "You didn't test for it?"

"No, I--"

"Go run the tests."

Cameron opened her mouth, but Wilson predicted the question and warned her against asking with a slight shake of his head. Cameron said, "Right."

House rolled his eyes to look at Cameron. "You're still here," he observed.

"Right," Cameron said again, as though surprised to find herself present. "I just thought, since none of the obvious causes show up on the tests, maybe Doctor Wilson should test for cancer. Encephalitis would result from even a minor infection with a compromised immune system, which could be caused by a tumor."

"It is possible," Wilson admitted, "but anything you haven't noticed on the MRI isn't likely to have suppressed the system." Cameron nodded, clearly in disagreement with Wilson's response. "I don't think we should do the scan. It's a diagnosis based on exclusion, a shot in the dark. But if nothing else is coming up and the patient wants it, I'll have a look anyway."

"Thank you. And, where is Chase? Foreman and I haven't seen him since this morning, and if the patient gets any worse, having an intensivist on the team would be a great help."

"Yeah, too bad he has the flu," House replied, thickly sarcastic. "Go run your tests." He seemed surprisingly unconcerned, perhaps because encephalitis was an almost routine diagnosis--one he and his team were wasted on. Cameron left without further comment.

House stood. "Can I just ask one thing, and have an honest answer?" Wilson asked.

"Yes. Satisfied?"

"Do you even care that Chase is sick?"

"Do I look like Cameron?" House asked. Seeing from Wilson's expression that he had not caught the full implications of the sarcasm, House added, "Of course I care. I don't like him, but I don't want him to suffer. Too much," he amended quickly.

A half-hour later, Wilson found Cameron in the lab, running tests. "Alison?" He felt the catch in his throat ease when she turned to face him, and realized he had feared that she was crying. _That was foolish,_ he scolded himself. No one who worked for Greg House wept to be treated harshly. "You're worried about Chase, aren't you?" Wilson asked.

"And you're not?" Cameron retorted, somewhat more harshly than was completely fair. "I'm afraid he's going to die because he can't be bothered to take care of himself, and he won't let anyone else do it." Her mousy face scrunched slightly, forcing back tears.

Wilson didn't think he completely deserved her anger, but given that the only reasonable alternative target was House (because Foreman would hug her and she would cry), he was perhaps the safest outlet. "Well, I was going to drop by his place after work, see how he is. I thought you might like to come?"

* * *

Earthdrago: If you insist upon sarcasm, do not disregard basic grammar. 'I can't be bothered pile' should read 'I-can't-be-bothered pile' to indicate where one phrase ends, so that one is not left wondering what could possibly bother a pile!

Bessie: Your questionsshould be answered in this chapter. As for length, I don't do long chapters. I don't think they add anything to the story itself and they make it far more difficult for me to update.

Elli: Physically speaking, Chase really just has the flu.

And thanks to everyone, I really do love getting reviews! I'll try to make the next update a bit quicker.


	5. Chapter 5

Disclaimer: I own nothing. Fox or Bryan Singer probably owns House and company; Nadia Wheatley owns 'Night Tolkien Died'; Jean Genet owns himself

* * *

Chase woke from an unpleasant dream at the sound of loud knocking, disoriented and cold. His throat felt sandpapered, and the room swam in and out of focus as he stumbled to the door of his apartment. He squinted through the tiny looking-glass to see who was there, then shook his head. He opened the door without undoing the chain lock. "What are you doing here?" he demanded. "You could catch something!"

"I think we know the proper precautions," Cameron replied. "Can we come in, please?"

Chase protested, "No! You should go back to the hospital or go home or something. You can't be here, I'm sick--"

"Exactly. We're here to look after you."

Chase shook his head, but instead of arguing he asked, "Who's 'we', anyway? I only see you."

This amused Cameron, but she was not a laughing sort of girl. She smiled. "Wilson's here, too. Come on, Chase, let us!"

Despite a muggy mind and thick esophagus, Chase had his wits gathered loosely about him. "You could get sick--"

"Not likely." Wilson decided it was time he settled the issue. For the first time he understood House's short temper. These two argued like two unusually gracious twelve-year-olds. "It's not Influenza A," he explained. "No one else is ill. You've been sick nearly a week, and Foreman, House and Alison have shown no signs of sharing your infection. If you had Influenza A, there would have been an epidemic."

Reluctantly, Chase closed the door and unlatched the chain lock. He unwillingly invited Cameron and Wilson in. The moment they entered his apartment Chase felt a self-conscious blush creeping up his neck, and he took as long as he possibly could closing and latching the door. "I'm sorry for the mess," he said unnecessarily, sweeping a handful of tissues into the rubbish bin. The room was immaculate, if one was turning the pages of a catalogue. In reality the stunning lack of personality sent a shiver through Cameron's nervous system, and she found herself staring at the couch, the oasis of mess, where a quilt lay half on the floor. Chase had clearly been sleeping there. "I wasn't really expecting anyone to come round," he apologized.

"We're really not here to play any role in your personal life," Wilson said.

"Then why are you here?" Chase asked.

"Like I said," Cameron replied, "to look after you. To make sure you continue to have a social life." She hefted the plastic grocery bag in her hand. "Even if, against all odds, you do know how to cook, you probably shouldn't be trusted around any flames. You're sick! So, we decided to feed you."

Chase lost control and blushed. He jammed his hands shyly into his pockets. "You don't have to--"

"We're going to," Wilson interrupted.

"Yes, you do seem determined…" Chase looked about helplessly.

"Kitchen?" Cameron prompted. Chase led the way mutely. Within half a minute Wilson and Cameron had ascertained that Chase did not mind their presence and did not wish them to leave, though he knew they would is he asked. All of this was managed without more than single-syllable answers from Chase, ever polite but more cold and distant than most ill folk are from competent doctors.

Chase insisted, "I can help."

Wilson disagreed only because Cameron had slower responses. "You're sick, Chase. You should rest."

"I can't just let you--"

"You can boil some water," Cameron interrupted. "It's a real pain, has to be boiled without a lid on--family recipe." Satisfied, Chase filled a pot half-way at the sink. As he did, Wilson hissed a vague inquiry about the purpose of boiling water. "Keep him busy," Cameron replied quietly. "It's all in James Herriot."

Chase dropped the pot. He jumped, Cameron shrieked; Wilson winced at Cameron and the urge to shout at Chase. More than anything, this disturbed him. Wilson never shouted. In all the combined years of working with House and putting up with his brother's kids, he had never shouted. "Chase, please?" Wilson asked, indicating the next room. "You're sick."

"I'm not useless."

"No one said you were. Unfortunately, your job requires exposure to sick people. It's amazing you haven't grown ill before now. Please?" Seeing that this tactic was futile, Wilson promptly said to Cameron, "Are you playing quarterback here or not?"

Cameron shook her head. "I hate sports metaphors," she complained, tugging Chase out of the room.

"I can help," he protested.

Ignoring him, Cameron looked around. She was in the room she had entered, with the couch that served as a bed and bookshelves lined with books. Squinty she could just tell which were not lined with dust. "What's this?" she asked, taking down a purple paperback.

"Don't," Chase protested half-heartedly.

Cameron read the title, "The Night Tolkien Died? Memoir?" she asked.

"Not really. I had it… look, I liked Tolkien when I was a kid, okay? He was already dead, but… you know what the nineties were like."

Cameron nodded. "Bland," she suggested. "Yeah. Is this you?" She lifted a framed picture. It was easily missed, the subject turned downwards, but curiosity drove her to look at the snapshot even as Chase moved to stop her.

He was thirteen, if that, sitting on the floor with his hand behind him, legs splayed out, grinning hopelessly at his ridiculous friends who had tied helium balloons through the loops on his khaki trousers. Cameron smiled. "They called you Bobby, didn't they?" she asked.

"No," Chase replied, "they didn't." He stood awkwardly for a moment, then in fits and stammers said, "My dad did. I never liked it." When Cameron could think of nothing to say in response, Chase supplied a new topic: "Look, you can borrow the book if you like, just be careful. It's a bit old."

Cameron set the book back on the shelf. In truth, she wanted to hug Chase. She wanted to throw her arms around him and reduce him to a healing round of tears on her shoulder, after which he would trust her and feel much better about everything in his life. She sincerely believed that she could make him eat and sleep, build antibodies faster than the speed of light. "Jean Genet." She ran a finger along the spine of another book. "I always found him too abstract for satire."

"I don't think he qualifies as satire."

She spun to face him. "You think Genet isn't political commentary?" Cameron returned incredulously.

"Commentary, yes. Satire? No. I suppose it's different when you've been Warda," Chase admitted. Cameron felt her eyes widen at the prospect of Chase as the whore with slits in her skirt. "Late bloomer." Chase tried to shrug off his embarrassment, but ended up doubled over in a coughing fit.

Ignoring his hands attempting to flap her away, Cameron directed Chase gently to the couch and sat him down. She sat beside him and, before she could think, rubbed his back as he coughed. "Cameron," he wheezed, once his coughing had stopped. She took her hand back promptly, hurt and embarrassed.

_What am I doing here?_ Cameron wondered. For the first time since Wilson had suggested this visit to her, Cameron questioned it._ It's not wrong,_ she thought_, this dropping by. This is what friends do. This is what people do for one another. But me? I don't belong here. I'm not the right kind of bold…_

Her eyes strayed to the kitchen. Wilson shot Cameron a thumbs-up. Slowly, discreetly, she drew in a deep breath.

* * *

earthdrago: Thanks for bringing the italics issue to my attention; I've fixed it. As for anorexia, comfortable as corners are, every one is false. Yes, extended periods of starvation lead to a skeletal appearance, but this is not the immediate result. There is weight loss, but before the skeletal appearance, especially for someone with more fat than muscle, will come brittle hair, yellowed fingertips, the like. I like Wilson, too. He caves to House often, but it seems like he does it not out of weakness but the belief that House is in pain.

Arbitrary9: Cameron's not crying because Chase has the flu. She thinks he's killing himself by negligence, and to a certain degree, she's right.


	6. Chapter 6

NOTE: So, here it goes, the final chapter. When the show dealt with Rowan Chase's death, I decided not to finish this story... but then, I'd started it, hadn't I? So here it is, for whatever criticism anyone desires that I should go against canon. Enjoy!

* * *

For over five minutes the three doctors sat mutely in Chase's front room, not bothering even to attempt stilted conversation, trying to ignore the seeming echoes of their forks against the bowls. Chase, thoroughly humiliated by the entire situation, made a few remarks of false gratitude, but there was no purpose in sustaining them as he clearly grudged Wilson and Cameron the attention. For Wilson, who had endured the friendship of Gregory House and survived three (perhaps two and a half, in fairness) marriages, the silence was nothing short of ordinary. Chase found it at least more comfortable than the screaming that had preceded his parents' divorce. For the unscarred Cameron, it was almost unbearable.

"Why is the only picture about here one of you?" she asked finally. Wilson and Chase stared at her, not certain what she meant. "That picture, the one of you with the balloons," she explained to Chase. "It's the only one around, and it's of you, and it's turned down. Why?"

Chase shrugged. "If you're calling me self-involved, it's not that. I had this friend, Kylie, in like the seventh grade. She took loads of photographs, and ended up sending most of them to me, but that's the one she actually handed over in person, in the frame for my birthday."

Both Wilson and Cameron heard the slight catch in Chase's voice. Heedless, desperate, Cameron plunged onwards, "What do you mean, handed over in person?"

"Well… I got the rest about eight or nine years ago, all these cardboard boxes, big ones--if you've ever moved?"

Cameron nodded. Wilson gave a wry, cynical chuckle. "I got kicked out by two wives," he said.

Because Cameron clearly wanted to say something kind, Wilson silently implored Chase to continue. The Aussie obeyed. "Kylie had a ton of pictures, if you can imagine seven boxes piled up, photographs spilling out of them because they were so slippery, and there were so many, the boxes just couldn't hold them. There was maybe one other thing in the boxes, and that was this libretto. She'd scribbled all over it, in the margins, the back pages--the title page. But these pictures…"

When Chase trailed off and his eyes glazed, Cameron glanced worriedly at Wilson. Indulging their concern, he felt Chase's forehead. Normally, to Chase and Cameron, the wrist on the forehead was a silly myth when a thermometer reading was unchanged by, for example, bad circulation or irregular personal regularities, but Wilson had felt enough feverish brows to know danger from safety. "It's not fever," he told Cameron quietly.

"Were all the pictures of you?" she asked Chase.

He blinked. "What?"

"The pictures--Kylie's. Were they all of you?"

Chase laughed. "G-d, no! She'd taken photographs of everything, our friends, her family, pretty things. Most of them were from before I knew her, even, but… it's difficult to explain. I mean, I'm probably romanticizing it since I haven't spoken to her in years."

"She moved?" Cameron asked.

"Not exactly. She actually got put in a mental hospital and died there." Terrified that he would be expected, at this revelation, to break into tears, he pressed on, "If you'd known her, I can promise you, you would both understand. You would know the difference between misery food with Kylie and misery pasta with two colleagues. Sorry," he added quickly. "I meant to make fun of myself, not… not you…"

But the damage was done. Cameron stood without a word, pushed a clump of hair behind her ear and began collecting bowls. She was in the kitchen washing up before Chase recovered. "Doctor Wilson," he appealed. "I didn't mean…"

"I know that," Wilson told him. "House is a brilliant teacher in many things, and how to appreciate the sentiment beneath the social discomfort is his favorite lecture to give. He never stops, in fact. Unfortunately, Cameron will want something more than 'I didn't mean it.'" He nodded towards the kitchen, then with confident tone but awkward phrasing asked permission to use the bathroom.

Left alone, Chase stepped into the uncomfortable silence surrounding Cameron and began drying dishes. For a long while, he said nothing. It was long enough that the bowls were cleaned, dried and placed neatly in a cupboard and Wilson was attempting to be unnoticed in the next room. When Cameron handed Chase the last of the forks, he knew it was time to choke down the thick twist in his throat and tell her the truth.

"Nobody's ever done this sort of thing for me before, not since… and talking about her... I was never Warda," he said, returning to their earlier discussion. "She was always the captain, and I'd never talked about Kylie with anyone. I guess it's easier than talking about my dad. I didn't know what to say, Alison. I'm sorry if I… hurt your feelings." With anyone but Alison Cameron such an apology would be ridiculous, as something taken off a page. But she was so soft-hearted. She was the sort who seemed to have feelings, unlike House who had only arrogance or Wilson who had emotions. Even Foreman had sentiments. But with Cameron, "feelings" seemed an apt word.

Cameron looked up at him, and for a moment something cold and unforgiving in those piercing blue eyes froze the very blood in his veins. Then Cameron smiled that gentle Cameron-smile and said, "Thanks. I know that was hard for you, Bobby." She was testing him, and he knew it.

"Please don't call me that," he said. "Only my dad ever did."

She said, "Okay," then turned and joined Wilson. Chase followed. "So, we should probably leave you to get some rest."

"Feel better," Wilson advised. "It shouldn't take long."

As his fingers brushed the doorknob, Cameron's pager beeped. She checked the message. "Damn."

"What is it?" Wilson asked.

"Our patient died," Cameron answered, clearly on the verge of tears. "I thought… she was recovering." She had to sit down for a moment, overboiling with apologies, and it was Wilson's luck that as Cameron was collecting herself, there came a knock at the door.

"Oh, good, House and Foreman are here… now the party can really get going," Wilson quipped. His jaw dropped when Chase opened the door to reveal Doctor House, leaning on his cane like Charlie Chaplin. "I--I--I had no idea," he stammered.

"Hi, Jimmy," House said.

"Hi?" Wilson replied meekly.

To Chase,House said, "I won't bothering asking if I can come in. I don't want to, you don't want me to. I thought it best to tell you in person that I know about Rowan and for what it's worth I'm sorry. He was a great doctor, and a terrible father." Chase stood, stunned beyond speech, blocking the entryway without realizing it. Wilson and Cameron, too, were surprised: House had issued, even through grave insult,a genuinely kind sentiment. Though he offered it in his clipped, round tone, there was no sarcasm. There was no mockery.

"You aren't a bad doctor, Chase. The minute you shake this flu I expect you back at work." He paused before completing the statement, "Cameron and Foreman, well, they're the tokens--the girl, the black guy--but you, Chase! You are a skilled man, and I miss the coffee neither of them knows how to brew. Cameron's, ugh, would even lose to her in a fight, and Foreman's, well, you know it's gonna be racist so why do I bother?"

With that House turned and walked away. Chase recovered his senses after a moment; he brushed the tears out of his eyes and, before two anxious colleagues,laughed.

THE END!

Earthdrago: Well, it's sort of about everyone's weirdness because by adding them into the story I'm agreeing to take them as the writers intended, as best I can interpret that. But no, I'm not doing any pairings.

Seree: No pairings whatsoever.

Thanks to everyone who reviewed, it's always appreciated, and I hope you all enjoyed my story.


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